


Overload

by zelempa



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Episode: s04e01 Sentinel Too, Illness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-01
Updated: 2008-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:36:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelempa/pseuds/zelempa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was times like these when he seemed almost there, when Blair began to think he could snap him out of it if he just tried hard enough. He'd whisper intently into his ear, sometimes for hours at a time: "C'mon, Jim. Come back to me. Follow my voice..." The good times were worse than the bad, in that way, because it always seemed--it always so seemed!--like that would work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overload

**Author's Note:**

> I never knew how much resentment I harbored toward Blair for always being right. Here's me writing this story: (type type) "Oh, man, poor Blair. I am shattering his world. And when he tries to put the pieces together, I take them away and hide them. Oh, dear little Blair, you deserve a hug. You won't get one." (type type) You have been warned.
> 
> Thanks to my lovely betas, yolsaffbridge, erda, and Jane Davitt.

Most of the cops didn't want to come; didn't want to see what Jim had been reduced to. Blair understood theoretically, if not personally. Serengeti baboons also shunned the aging or injured members of the troop.

They'd been home nearly two weeks when Megan and Joel arrived unannounced. It was lucky they'd waited until after dinner; Jim had been having a bad day, up until then, twisting in bed with his hands over his ears, while Blair alternated between watching over him protectively and sitting downstairs failing to read. Jim came down after dinner, though, and ate an apple of his own accord. He was better, then, his best, really: wandering into a room, staring at something, snapping out of it, wandering out to zone on something else. It was times like these when he seemed almost _there_, when Blair began to think he could snap him out of it if he just tried hard enough. He often couldn't resist making the attempt. He'd sit Jim down on the couch, or lay him on the bed, and climb close beside him, and whisper intently into his ear, sometimes for hours at a time: "C'mon, Jim. Come back to me. Follow my voice..." The good times were worse than the bad, in that way, because it always seemed--it always so seemed!--like that would work.

"Hey, wow," said Blair when he opened the door. "Come on in. Long time no see."

"How've you been? We've missed you," said Megan. "Last week I introduced Brown as a 'consultant to the department' just out of nostalgia. It really seemed to bother him," she added earnestly, "so I kept doing it." Blair smiled, but he noticed that she didn't say anything about Jim. He wondered if he was expected not to, either, which would make things kind of awkward. But Joel said, shyly, "How is he?"

Blair could have hugged him. "He's got his ups and downs," he said. "Better now that he's at home. He couldn't stand the hospital." He turned and called up the stairs, "Jim!", then turned back to them and shrugged apologetically. "Not that that'll do anything. Lemme get you a beer."

"Simon said he was by earlier," said Megan.

"Yeah, he's been great," said Blair. "When we first got back, he was by nearly every day. I don't know what we would've done without him."

He'd brought the beers to the living room, and Megan had just launched into a funny-thief story, when Jim padded down in his slippers, and stood by the bottom of the stairs, head cocked, gazing intently through the guests. Blair got up and jogged over to him. "Hey, man, it's our friends. Come say 'hi,'" as if that was in the cards. He took Jim by the arm. Jim didn't resist his touch as he sometimes did, but he also didn't allow himself to be led forward. He inhaled, shakily, and swayed backwards on his feet.

"Jim?" Joel asked softly. He glanced to Blair. "Can I-- can he understand?"

"I don't know. Probably not," said Blair. "I talk to him, though. I don't know what he hears, but at least it doesn't seem to bother him. Usually."

"Hi, Jim," said Joel.

Jim didn't make eye contact; he just knit his brow, still gazing at a point in the middle distance. Blair tried to lead him forward, but he was an immovable object.

"He might just stay here for awhile," said Blair, trying to sound less weary than he felt.

"What is it?" Joel asked.

He had to know the party line--head injury, neurological damage--and Blair couldn't tell him more, not without a go-ahead Jim was incapable of giving. "The doctors don't know much," Blair said honestly.

Megan sent him a penetrating glance. She knew. She followed him into the kitchen, leaving Joel alone to watch Jim uncomfortably.

"It's a Sentinel thing, isn't it?"

Blair frowned at her ostentatious whisper, but Joel didn't seem to have noticed anything. "Yeah," he admitted.

"Like Alex? Circuits fried?"

Blair flinched and forced his mind not to dwell on that image: Jim busted, broken, beyond repair. "Yeah."

"But--but you're his Guide thingy, right? Can't you fix it?"

"If I could," said Blair, "I'd have done it. I'd have done it a hundred times."

*

Blair stretched out on the blanket, listening to the crackling of the campfire, to Jim's soft footsteps as he fortified the campsite. He breathed deeply, marveling at the pain-free working of his lungs. Lungs, man. People didn't stop and appreciate those bad boys enough.

The night was strangely peaceful--cozy, even--especially considering they'd only just traversed the same ground on the trail of a disease-wielding rogue Sentinel.

Blair had to smile when he thought of Jim as he looked tracking Alex. Focused, in control, graceful. He'd been more than man; he'd been the perfect, primal, panther-man; a bloodhound on the trail; a lean, mean, day-saving machine. Even tied up and scared out of his mind he'd felt a happy flush of pride, watching Jim work his magic.

He'd been so perfect with Alex before she collapsed--said all the right things, all the things Blair felt like expressing but couldn't. If any words could have saved Alex then, Jim's would have saved her. But her senses were too far gone. The second trip into the grotto had done her in. "Circuits fried," Megan had said, and that was apt: more information coming in than her neurons could handle. Watching her twitching body being loaded into the medical chopper, Blair was torn between sorrow and guilt and the overwhelming desire to study her. He almost volunteered when Simon asked for someone to escort her back to the hospital in Cascade, but Jim spoke first. "Sandburg and I will stick around and tie up the loose ends with the department here."

"You up to it, Blair?" asked Simon with concern.

"Of course," said Blair. "I'm fine." And any ideas he'd had about going home were overcome by the need to prove he could take the jungle. Like he hadn't already. He was getting a little sick of the kid glove routine. The only person who treated him normally was Jim.

Which, really, was odd. Jim was usually the one hovering around protectively, sneaking examinations of his wounds, while Blair batted him away with a steady chorus of "I'm fine, Jim. Jim, I'm fine. Jim. Jim. Let go! I've had worse." And Jim would say "Why does that not comfort me? You've had multiple concussions," or "You've been in a coma." Now he'd be able to say "You've been dead." Somehow this time, the one time Blair could not possibly have had worse, was the one time Jim was taking his recovery for granted.

But then, why shouldn't he? He'd been there. He'd made it happen. He'd seen the same vision--the panther and the wolf colliding. If anybody was going to understand the way Blair felt when he returned to the world of the living--perfect, reborn--it would be Jim.

Couldn't complain about the understanding between them these days. Jim had sent him a glance after volunteering them which Blair interpreted to mean "I know you wanted a second look at the temple." Blair's returning wide-eyed grin had been intended to convey "Dude, you rock! I wish I'd brought my camera. Do you think the hotel sells disposables?" To which Jim had shrugged an eloquent, "How should I know?" And that had been that. They'd spent the next twenty-four hours more or less apart, Jim filling out paperwork and having meetings while Blair hung around the beach pretending to organize his notes but actually looking at girls. Then at night before they went to their rooms Blair had asked "Want to head out in the morning?", not because he had any doubt of the answer, but because it seemed weird to arrange a camping trip without a single word spoken. "Gear's all packed," said Jim.

It was exciting, this--deepening, or solidifying, of the bond between them. They'd gone on to a new level, ready to face--something--something beyond what they'd encountered so far. Blair was getting used to a constant state of exhilarated confusion (more than usual, even). He felt so close to figuring it all out, like he had a word on the tip of his tongue.

He'd have liked to talk about it with Jim. As Sentinel he had a stronger instinctual connection to the Sentinel spirits, and he was a pretty good sounding board in general. He reacted to most of Blair's ideas with exasperated sighs, yes, but Blair had gotten good at telling which of his ideas were good and which were stupid by the arc of the eyeroll. But Jim had made it pretty clear this topic was impassible terrain. For a mystic warrior, he was remarkably uncomfortable with the unexplained.

Jim sat down beside him on the blanket then and started unlacing his shoes, and Blair decided to give it a shot anyway. "Do you think we're more in sync than we used to be?"

"No. You left your stupid sesame snacks out. Do you want to be eaten by a cougar?"

"No, that's what I keep you around for."

"I don't know. I might be on the cougar's side."

"I mean, with the vision," Blair began.

"Here we go," sighed Jim.

"Do you think it was a cause or an effect?" Blair wondered, heartened by Jim's resigned tone of voice. It lacked that don't-go-there-on-pain-of-death edge.

"Do we have to analyze this right now?"

"Or like an instruction? Are we supposed to be doing something?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know, I just, I feel like there's something more to figure out."

"Whatever's supposed to happen, will happen," said Jim. "Go to sleep."

He was probably right. It wasn't like there was a problem they needed to solve; Jim's control had never been better. Blair still felt like there was something coming, a new trial, but whatever it was, they'd figure it out when they needed to. These things had a way of coming together in the moment. Blair couldn't count his flashes of inspiration since he started the project. Jim would have a problem with his senses, Blair would suddenly pluck an idea from the ether, and bam, it'd all be okay. It had been continually surprising at first, but he'd learned to trust his hunches. It seemed to work the same way for Jim. He had just known what to do to save Blair; just known what to do to comfort Alex in her final moments.

There was the familiar mix of sorrow and pride. Okay, so it had ended badly, but Jim had tried his best, and tellingly, he'd tried Blair's methods. There was really no better evidence that Blair had been useful to Jim--that Jim had really been paying attention to his guide-patter that he believed in its power. He'd become--

Click. Ideas coming together. Blair felt suddenly slightly nauseous. He turned to Jim and shook him gently. "Jim. Jim."

"What?" Jim fluttered his arm in a swatting motion.

"Jim, what if you're the Guide?"

Now Jim rolled over to give him an incredulous stare. "What are you talking about?"

"In the temple, you guided Alex. You told her, 'Listen to the voice, let it guide you'--that was your voice! You were guiding her!"

"I was trying to think what you would do."

"Right! But I didn't!"

"You were tied up."

"I wasn't gagged, Jim. I was there, I wanted to help, but I just, couldn't! I couldn't think of what to say. You stepped in. Maybe that's, I mean, maybe that's you now!"

"I'm the _Sentinel_," Jim pointed out impatiently.

"So now you're both! Maybe you don't need someone else to guide you anymore--you know what you're doing. You're it! You're done!"

"Done."

"Done, you know, learning what you needed to learn, or something."

"So what, you were just keeping it warm for me?"

"Sure, I don't know. I don't have all the details--"

"What about the vision?" Jim demanded. "The wolf and the panther," and searching for a word, he intertwined his fingers in illustration. "Came together."

"Exactly, yeah!" Blair nodded rapidly. "In _you_!"

"You're crazy," said Jim, and he had one of those that-is-a-legitimately-stupid-idea expressions.

"It makes total sense of everything," said Blair, but he was less certain now. Or maybe he just wanted to be uncertain. He had a motive for not wanting this theory to be true. It made him superfluous.

"If you don't want to..." Jim began. He spoke slowly, struggling with the words, and Blair didn't need him to finish the sentence.

"No! I just, I don't know, maybe you'd be better off."

"I don't want to talk about this," Jim muttered, settling back down onto the blanket.

Blair's mind still raced, comparing points for and against the theory, subjecting his own feelings to rigorous examination. He didn't expect to hear again from Jim until morning, when he would probably still limit conversation to breakfast-related topics, so he was surprised to hear him shift around suddenly and challenge, "Okay, genius. If you're not my Guide anymore, how come I still feel more focused when I'm around you?"

"I don't know." Blair willed himself not to rejoice in the counterevidence and to give the matter serious objective thought. "Maybe it's psychosomatic. All in your head. Like a sugar pill."

"You're some kind of pill," Jim grumbled.

Blair lay back down to think, but a minute later there was another rustle behind him, and Jim was speaking again. "So what did you get?"

Blair turned around, finally, even though it was too dark for him to interpret Jim's expression. "What do you mean?"

"The wolf, the panther. If I got your Guide thing, what did you get?"

"You mean like Sentinel abilities? No. Interesting thought, though."

"Sure?"

"I think I would have noticed."

"Close your eyes," Jim suggested. "What do you hear?"

"Can I just--for the record--are you guiding me?"

"Shut up. What do you hear?"

Blair closed his eyes, even though he couldn't see anything anyway. "Crickets."

"No, come on. Try."

Blair squeezed his eyes shut harder, even though there was no reason that should help. "Um... maybe an owl somewhere? Some other kind of chirping bug thing, too."

"Okay, what else?"

He listened, really listened, and was surprised to hear something else. "Running water somewhere? I think?"

"Yeah, yeah. What else?"

Blair listened longer. "I don't know. That's it."

"You're not a Sentinel," said Jim, sounding disappointed.

"Hey," Blair laughed. "You know what I got? Brought back to life."

"Oh. Right."

"I took one of your nine lives. Sorry about that, by the way."

"Hey, anytime," said Jim, and there was slight catch in his voice. "Help yourself." Jim's hand, large and warm, fell heavily over Blair's. Blair curled his fingers around Jim's knuckles.

"You're all wrong about the wolf and the panther," said Jim after a moment. "I know you're always right, but you're wrong. We were... I mean... I think they meant us to stick together. You don't get that?"

"Kind of," said Blair. He knew then that he hadn't really believed what he'd been saying about Jim being the Guide; he'd found it logically plausible, but he hadn't really deep-down believed it. What Jim said felt right. "I want to believe it."

"So believe it."

They had both shifted closer by some common instinct before Blair realized something was about to happen. He didn't know what. He knew what. Jim took Blair's face in both hands, and Blair's hands fell to cup Jim's elbows. His eyes had adjusted to the dark well enough now that he could meet Jim's gaze. He was amazingly close, smiling in that tender way he had. This was getting way out there, final-frontier, here-there-be-serpents, uncharted territory strange. This was as natural and familiar as coming home.

Their mouths came together as if magnetized. Jim's lips were hot against his, and when Blair pulled back to take a breath, Jim chased him back. Blair moved his hands up Jim's arms, curled them around Jim's shoulders, pressed their chests together. Jim dug one hand deep into Blair's hair, plunged the other down his back. Without conscious thought or decision-making, Blair slid his tongue into Jim's mouth, and with a complete lack of surprise Jim stroked it with his own.

Jim jerked around, looking over his shoulder. "What was that?"

The moment Jim's mouth left his, reality set in for Blair. Oh man. Oh man. Really? Really, this was a kissing thing? Since when? Lying side by side with Jim, in _bed_, arms entangled, lips wet and tingling--how? How had this come to pass? How had any of the steps leading to this made sense at the time? He slid out of Jim's slack embrace and sat up, touching his mouth dazedly. "Uh... Jim?"

Jim grunted in distracted acknowledgement.

"What was _that_?"

Brief pause, then Jim whirled back around. Even in the dark Blair could see a dramatic change coming over his features: bewildered concern to intensely bewildered concern.

"I don't... I don't know!" He shook his head, brows knit in what Blair hoped wasn't disgust. Because this all was confusing, yeah, but--Blair couldn't suppress the soaring feeling in his chest. This was _good_. This was _right_. The puzzle pieces fell into place.

"So," said Blair, "this makes new sense of the vision."

Jim released a laughing breath, and then Blair was laughing, too. Tension dissolved. There was no point fighting it: they were doing what the spirits wanted. He fell playfully against Jim's shoulder, and without hesitation Jim wrapped an arm around him and kissed his forehead.

*

Logically Blair knew that it was only a coincidence that Jim's first kiss and his last moments of real consciousness were separated by less than twelve hours. That any guilt he felt about it (_I touched him and he broke!_) was only the result of puritanical sex-negative and homophobic cultural influences in society at large and in particular in the police subculture in which he and Jim were enmeshed. This logical knowledge was not helpful when it four o'clock in the morning and he was sitting in the doorway of his room, watching Jim sit on the couch and stare at nothing. Staying that way because he was too nervously protective to go to sleep himself, and because when he had tried to go over and relax Jim, lie him down, soothe him with soft words and caresses, Jim flinched away like Blair's fingers burned him.

*

Their mouths had hardly met a second time when Jim pulled away again.

"What's wrong?" asked Blair, and felt dumb: "This!" was the obvious answer.

But instead Jim said, "I think there's someone out there."

"Are you sure?"

Jim got up and walked to the edge of the campsite, looking out. "No," he said finally.

"Maybe you're just on edge. Stress. I mean, that could explain a lot. We've both had some seriously intense experiences lately, and, what's happening now is obviously really weird. I mean, we just _kissed_, Jim, and that's, like--whoa!" Blair cut himself off as Jim drew his gun. "Don't shoot the messenger!"

"Blood," said Jim, checking his ammo. "Human."

"You smell it?"

Jim nodded shortly and clicked the magazine back into the gun. "Come on."

Somehow Blair managed to keep track of Jim as he wove around trees, jumped over logs, failed to trip over roots and his own feet (which was harder than it looked), and probably didn't get hit in the face with nearly as many stinging little branches as Blair did. When he finally lost him he didn't have much time to panic before he was bursting out onto the bank of a little brook and there was Jim, kneeling by a still body, and thrusting his gun into the back of his pants so he could take the woman's face into his hands. "It's okay. You'll be okay. Chief!"

"I'm here," said Blair, coming up behind Jim's shoulder. He swallowed back a bitter tang as he reinterpreted the sight of the woman's face. What he'd thought was mud covering her features was actually blood oozing from an open gash across her neck and chest. She looked beyond help to Blair, but he bowed to Jim's superior judgment. A burbling gasp escaped her lips, and then Jim was holding her shoulders, calling out, "No, no, come back!" He pushed down on her wound, and to Blair's horror, looked like he might begin pumping it for CPR.

"Jim," said Blair gently.

"I know, I know." Jim relaxed his grip and swayed back on his haunches. "She's gone."

"What killed her?"

"You mean who." Jim looked down at his red hands and began to wipe them off on the grass. "She was murdered."

"Are you sure? It's a jungle out here. Wild animals..."

Jim shook his head and jerked it toward the body. "See the edges on the wound?"

Blair looked politely, even though he doubted the sight would have meant anything to him even if it were light enough to perceive it.

"She was killed with a machete."

Blair frowned. "Whoever it was--"

"--is still out there," Jim finished grimly.

"This is bad, Jim. If there's a killer out there, and we don't know his motives, we've gotta assume we're in danger, and so's everybody who lives around here."

"You don't have to convince me, Chief. I'm trying to get a read on him. There's too much--I can't," Jim rubbed his head. "It's all her. I can only smell her."

"Okay. Okay," said Blair soothingly. "You know how to do this, Jim. Separate her out. Try to figure out what's unique to the killer."

Jim closed his eyes and inhaled. Blair watched, trying not to distract him by so much as a breath. He shouldn't have worried, because Jim apparently wanted to know he was there. He reached out blindly and grabbed Blair's arm. Blair stepped closer, and Jim leaned his head into Blair's open hand. It was a strange gesture--weirdly intimate yet weirdly ritual. With Jim kneeling before him Blair felt like a figure in an ancient tapestry.

In a single businesslike move Jim broke contact and got to his feet. He had the look of a bloodhound.

"You got something?" Blair bounced on the balls of his feet, suddenly excited. "Lead the way, man."

*

Blair didn't waste time worrying when he walked into the kitchen to find Jim standing there, muscles tense, maybe on his fifth or sixth hour of fan-fixation. He just chirped, "Buongiornio, pumpkin! Insomnia, huh?" He was possibly going a little nuts. "Sit, now, there you go." Jim relaxed beneath his touch and allowed himself to be pushed gently into a chair. Blair poured a bowl of cereal for them both because he didn't know how much Jim would eat, and when Jim didn't respond to the proffered spoon, he soothed, "Come on, open up. This is good stuff, man, fortified with vitamins A, C, B probably, B12, B flat, I don't know, zinc? You want zinc, don't you? Sure, we all need zinc. Come on now. Say aaaaah. No? Okay, airplane, right? Vrrrrrrr," and midway through the engine sound effect, he froze.

What the hell was he doing? Jim wasn't a child. He was a man--_the_ man--the primal, capable, superpowered Sentinel.

Very carefully Blair emptied the spoon back into the bowl and placed it down on the table. Suddenly, violently, he dashed the bowl, cereal, milk, everything onto the floor in a splashy crash. The bowl, frustratingly, didn't break, just spun a few times loudly on its brim. Jim turned his head sharply, but it was wrongly-timed, and in the wrong direction. Not a response, just a coincidence. Blair let out a wordless yell. It was just to let off steam, really, but when he noticed that Jim still didn't respond, he got closer, right up to Jim's ear, and shouted as loud as he could.

That got a response: Jim flinched hard, and tried to bury his ear in his shoulder. Even after the noise stopped he kept his eyes squeezed shut, and Blair could see tears of pain glittering at the corners.

Blair stepped back, clapping a hand over his mouth. He fell to his knees and dropped his head into Jim's lap. Jim's entire body was tense, and Blair's contact had no effect. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Blair whispered into his sweatpants.

He stayed that way for a long time. He half-expected to feel Jim's hand come up and rest heavy on his shoulder, to hear Jim's voice, calm and low: "It's okay" or "For what?" or "Sandburg?" or "What is this? Get off me," hey, that would be fine, too. Anything.

Turned out now was not the moment for Jim to miraculously wake up, all better. In that way this moment was just exactly like all the other moments of the last three weeks, which, by now, should not be so surprising.

"What am I going to do?" he asked out loud. Since meeting Jim, he'd never gone this long without inspiration. Maybe he ought to feel lucky about that, but why did the magic stop now--now, when he most desperately needed a solution?

The problem with being the world's foremost expert on a subject was that when he was stumped, that was it--nobody to ask. He knew Burton by heart, and there was nothing helpful there. Usually when he wanted new material he went straight to the source, but Jim couldn't even communicate with him now.

That was the difference--he'd never had to deal with any Sentinel problems without Jim. It wasn't just that Jim provided him with the raw data. (He actually wasn't that good at that. It was like pulling teeth, and he mocked Blair's questionnaires.) He kept Blair thinking on the right lines. Kept him on his toes. Kept him going.

And he was in closer communication with the spirits, which was sometimes really helpful. What if they were sending him visions now? Trying to show him the way? Didn't they realize it wouldn't help him any if the messages were all being marked "Return to sender"?

"Hey, guys," said Blair, lifting his eyes, "you know I'm right here, right? Ready, willing, and eager to be given some kind of deeply meaningful spirit quest? Vision? Dream? Maybe a message spelled out in Scrabble tiles? Anything, man. Cryptic's fine. I love cryptic. I'm a puzzle-solver." If only they'd give him some sign that he was on track, or that there even was a track. That someone up there was still on top of things and had plans for Jim yet.

Then again, maybe the spirits had decided to cut their losses and forget the used-up old Sentinel. Maybe Jim and Blair were on their own. Blair felt a flash of hatred for the hypothetical new Sentinel currently being prepared to make such-and-such a journey.

"This one's still good, you know," he snapped at the air. He gave the air a moment to prepare a response, but it snubbed him. Like talking to a brick wall, or to Jim. Hey-ohhh!

"Oh, God," Blair sighed, and hauled himself to his feet to deal with the cereal mess, feeling a dull wash of loneliness pass over him. No Jim. No spirits. Nobody to help him.

*

"Goddammit!" Jim stopped short, and Blair almost tumbled into him in the dark.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"I've been tracking the fucking victim!"

"What?"

"We're on our way to her village. This is where she came from!" Jim grabbed a fallen branch and threw it into the trees beyond. "Goddammit!"

"Are you sure? Maybe this is the direction the killer went in, too," Blair suggested.

Jim shook his head and ran a hand over his hair. "No. I wasn't sure at first, but it's definitely just the girl I'm trailing. Reverse trailing. Fuck."

"Okay, no problem," Blair soothed, making slow, fluid gestures, trying to counteract Jim's brusque pacing. "We'll just go back and start again."

"Chief, we've wasted a lot of time, and I barely had anything to begin with. I don't... I don't think..."

"We have to try," said Blair firmly. "I mean, it's that or give up, right?"

Jim stood still a moment, and Blair worried that he was considering giving up. He knew they had no reason to believe that this killer, in the grand scheme of things, was that dangerous; and he knew it was only by chance that they were here to witness the crime to begin with; but he still felt sure that giving up was the last thing Jim should do. Jim couldn't see his own progress as clearly as Blair could. From Jim's point of view, he'd racked up a lot of failures lately: failure to save Alex; failure to protect Blair... He needed this.

Suddenly Jim sprang into action, slamming his arm into a poor defenseless tree. "What the fuck is the use of these senses if they're only almost good enough! What the hell kind of Sentinel am I if I can't even protect the maybe six people in spitting distance of my own goddamn temple!"

"Hey, hey, man. Relax, okay?" He needed this, all right. Blair rested a hand on his back, tried to focus him with gentle strokes.

He stopped mid-rub. Jim noticed; he glanced down, frowning, and met Blair's eyes.

"How far did you say we are from the temple?" Blair asked.

"We're not." Jim indicated a direction.

"So," said Blair, "Here's a crazy idea."

*

"Where the hell were you today? You know you're going to get assigned to teach intro to the jocks and comp sci kids, right?"

Jim flinched even hearing the voice over the phone. "Molly, hi," said Blair as quietly as possible, letting himself into the hall. Like that would help. Jim could probably hear flies buzzing in Spokane, and everything in between. Blair couldn't imagine the cacophony.

"Why are you whispering? Seriously, why didn't you go to orientation? Besides the obvious suckitude."

"I've been busy."

"Police stuff," Molly suggested.

"Kind of. Uh." Well, he didn't need to get into details. "Jim's sick." She had a nurturing streak and would understand this better than tales of adventure, anyway.

"Oh, no! Is it serious?"

"Kind of," said Blair again, and even though he didn't feel weepy or anything, his voice came out surprisingly ragged.

"I'm sorry," said Molly. Then, cheerfully, "I hope you're not too busy to come out with us tonight. We're doing the anti-orientation thing. Cool kids only. We're calling it an ice solidifier."

It was tempting. Even being on the phone with Molly was refreshing, and he was strangely surprised every time she responded relevantly to something he said. But what if Jim needed him while he was off painting the town? There was nobody else who could take care of him. "I don't think I can."

"Come on, Blair, you owe us. I think Shelby will actually burst if she goes another day without seeing your pretty face."

Shit, Shelby. She was the honors undergrad Blair was supposed to be mentoring. He'd agreed to it last semester, when the greatest constraints on his time and energy he could imagine were balancing his work on Jim's cases with not finishing his dissertation. He'd met with her exactly once, when she ran into him on his office research raid just after returning from Mexico. He'd been so burned out with lack of sleep and overwork, he could see his own handwritten notes on Jim and Alex whenever he closed his eyes. He'd done a very bad job of listening to her opinions about ancient Inca organizational and bureaucratic documents, given her some probably semi-insane busywork, and taken off. He really owed it to her to at least check in.

And he needed some time off. He was no use to Jim if he went stir crazy. "I'll come," he said.

He hung up and called Megan to ask her to look in on Jim every so often during patrol. He phoned from inside the closet, partially to muffle the noise, and partially because he needed to make some serious wardrobe decisions. He was ridiculously excited to be leaving the house.

He brought out his blue shirt and his white shirt and held them up to Jim, balancing them like scales. Both seemed to cause Jim pain. Blair wore green.

He got to the bar early and the only other person there was Shelby. She was perched on a tall stool, long slender legs crossed at the ankles, sipping a pink fruity drink bigger than her head and studying a notebook. Her face lit up when she saw him, possibly because he'd been a remarkably elusive adviser, and possibly because she had a massive and obvious crush on him. Blair kind of liked that. Not that he had any intention of doing anything with her--for so, so many reasons--but it was nice to be appreciated. And it was one of many ways that she reminded him of himself at that age. He still had fond memories of Professor Williams, she of the long, long hair and the sexy South African accent, who'd almost gotten him to major in biochemistry. Just in time to file the paperwork, he'd taken his first anthro class and decided that whatever magical thing happened in the mind to create consciousness and society and humanity, he was more interested in the after photo than the before. God damn him; a biochem background would probably be really helpful right about now.

"I um, I finished the chart," Shelby said proudly. "I brought it, just in case you came." She pulled a thick stapled packet from her notebook.

"Chart?"

"You asked me to compare these symbols with all known ancient South American writing systems?"

Man. She'd obviously slaved on this assignment he had no memory of giving. It was like the time he'd suddenly remembered at nine-thirty that he'd asked Jennifer Hauer out for eight, and he arrived at her house to find her sitting on the stoop with a phone in her lap, make-up smudged and updo wilted. He could hardly imagine what had compelled him to ask her to do such unfocused busywork. And yet, he had to kind of admire his past self's ingenuity: he'd obviously thought ancient documents -&gt; ancient writing systems -&gt; the instructions on the wall of the Temple of the Sentinels. It had described the original disastrous sense-enhancing potion; why not the antidote?

And then he felt guilty for not following up on this line of research sooner. The thing was, for the first week AJA (After Jim's Accident), he'd spent twenty-four hours a day looking for a cure, figuring the sooner he fixed Jim the sooner they both could rest easy, but then he'd sort of realized it was going to be a longer-haul kind of thing, and the cure wouldn't matter if Jim starved to death while Blair was studying his notes. (Or if he starved himself. Jim was usually the one who brought him helpfully-timed bowls of soup and bread while he was deep in research mode.) In the last couple of weeks he'd relegated his study time to a few hours a day, Jim's mood permitting. But his study sessions were not only less lengthy of late, they were overall, hour for hour, less productive. He wouldn't have thought of making such a chart now. He resolved to recapture some of his old zeal, because there was no way hanging around in this state could be good for Jim. Or for Blair. Or for the city.

"Is there anything else you need?" Shelby asked eagerly.

And he resolved to be a better mentor to poor Shelby, God.

"This is perfect," said Blair. "Let me study it and see what I can come up with. In the meantime, hey, you've got me, you might as well use me." Shelby got a dreamy look, and Blair hurried on, "Have you decided on the topic of your project? Do you need some help narrowing it down?"

"Well--actually," she said, shyly, and Blair was overcome with the sneaking suspicion that her topic of choice was "the sex drive of the twenty-nine-year-old male PhD student"--"I stumbled on something--well. It might be kinda--out there."

"Try me," said Blair, thinking, _You may have picked just exactly the right adviser after all, kiddo._

"Well, you know, you said I could use your office to work in, and, well, just to see, you know, why I was doing what I was doing, and what kind of thing you were maybe interested in" oh no "I took the liberty of looking at some of your books, and" oh God "I don't know, but I'm interested in--" Blair felt sure if he had Jim's powers he would have heard both their hearts racing double-time-- "the Sentinels."

*

"Sh." Jim clapped a hand over Blair's mouth as they entered the temple, and dropped to his knees.

Blair sat down on the stone ledge beside Jim and let him meditate silently for a minute, making a respectful attempt to try to keep his fidgeting to a minimum as Jim communed with his spirits or what have you. When Jim looked up at the temple etchings, and reached out to touch Blair's knee--a sort of routine check Jim had taken to performing at random moments: is my Guide around? okay, check, systems are go--Blair figured it was safe to talk. "Anything?"

"Not a damn thing."

"Okay, that's okay. Hey, we're just getting started. Now, relax. Breathe. And buckle up, buddy. We're gonna crank it up to eleven, here."

"I'm _at_ eleven," Jim protested. "I've _been_ at eleven. I still can't hear the bastard."

"Fifteen then! Twenty-nine! Ten million! We're going off the charts. But I need you to let go of your anger. Give yourself a break, man. We're trying to do the impossible, here, so have a little patience. Be at peace. Can you do that?"

Jim nodded and closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath.

"Okay. Here we go. Now, forget the dials. We're so beyond the dials. Picture... Picture the _universe._"

Blair knew Jim was doing it because a slow smile spread over his face.

Okay, so far, so good, though Blair hadn't a clue what he was going to say next.

Before he'd worked it out, Jim opened his eyes. "Okay," he said. "I know what I have to do."

*

The arrival of Molly and the cool kids mercifully put a halt to any Sentinel talk. Blair concentrated on putting the project, the disaster, out of his mind for a few hours. It proved more difficult than anticipated; he didn't want to think about it, but the range of topics that reminded him of Jim included, but were not limited to: (1) science and research methods (a topic of choice in the current company), (2) dating (another topic of choice), (3) justice, law, and law enforcement (not especially a topic of choice, but it came up), (4) travel, (5) health, (6) men (Jim was one), (7) women (Jim knew some), (8) everything in the world, (9) everything in the universe.

Molly proved perceptive. Blair was caught off-guard when Sarah commented on his ladies' man status, Tom asked for a report on his latest exploits, and Shelby perked up her ears, but Molly just jumped in and steered the conversation away. "Aw, Blair's all settled-down and boring now. Let me tell you about this guy I met in Paris..." She'd always been useful for that kind of thing when they went out. She'd actually been a pretty good match for him. She'd understood how important his friendship with Jim was to him, and she didn't seem to mind being prioritized second; she just didn't want to be third, after crime-solving. She believed abstractly that crimes should be solved, but not at the expense of personal commitments. A lot of women seemed to think that way, which was maybe why Jim's love life had been such a disaster.

She was one of the last to leave, and since Blair had the truck, he offered her a ride home. They got onto the topic of Molly's own research on cross-cultural differences in the experience and expression of negative emotions. She was in the middle of describing an interesting experiment on fear when Blair pulled into her drive; he wanted to hear more, and she wanted his input, so he followed her inside to look at her data over coffee. It wasn't until he looked up from her notes and found himself gazing across scant inches into deep brown eyes that he realized (a) where this was headed, and (b) that he'd known all along where this was headed. He swallowed.

Molly smiled prettily and backed down, taking his cup to the sink. "So how are you going to work it with the dean?"

"Huh?"

"She thinks you've disappeared into the ether. She's giving away your classes."

Blair sighed. A week ago, maybe, and he'd still have said for sure he would have this sorted out within days. Now he only hoped he'd have Jim back by the end of the semester. "Maybe that's for the best."

"Tell me you're not dropping out!"

"No, no, I mean, not permanently. I do want to finish, I just... I can't deal with it right now. Not while I'm in the middle of..." He waved his hand vaguely.

"Taking care of your boyfriend."

Blair nodded down at the notebook, and then looked up sharply when the word registered.

*

It was easy to ignore the warning signals in the back of his mind as long as he was keeping busy. Like Alex, Jim had a Sentinel-mystical understanding of the instructions on the temple wall, and he read them out to Blair, who did most of the actual preparation of the sense-enhancing potion, mashing leaves in a bowl until his fingers were green. He'd proudly declared it done and handed it off, and Jim had said "Bottoms up" and chased it, before Blair had a chance to say "Wait, wait, but actually, this is a stupid idea."

Alex had taken the potion and it had worked so well it had overcome her. He flashed back to her collapsing tearfully in Jim's arms, unable to control or comprehend what was happening to her.

"Jim, what if..." Blair couldn't even articulate the worst-case scenario. "What if this goes wrong?"

Jim made a face and placed the bowl down on the ground. "That's what I keep you around for."

Right. Jim had a Guide for a reason. Blair just wouldn't let anything happen.

There was really no other way they could have played this, anyway. Jim wouldn't rest as long as there was a possibility of success, and Blair couldn't imagine passing up the opportunity to see how this would play out. Would it even work? Uncharted territory: scary, but exciting as hell.

"Well, so?" he asked, leaning over to examine Jim's face.

"Nothing yet."

Blair sat down beside him on the stone altar. "So what now?"

"Not sure. Never done this before. I mean, on purpose."

Blair nodded. Right: Alex had force-fed some of the potion to Jim, and he had been all right then. He would be all right this time. Of course he would! He was the stronger Sentinel. Alex had been greedy, taking power for power's sake. Jim was doing this for a good cause. He was trying to protect his territory! Surely the spirits would take that into account.

Of course, the last time Jim had taken this potion it had only led to visions, not enhanced senses. But he'd been numb from Alex's blowdart and laid out in a water tank at the time, so maybe one or both of those circumstances had altered the effect. Maybe they should try--

Hey there. Jim was sliding his hand over Blair's arm. He threaded their fingers together, and Blair smiled and squeezed his hand.

Then Jim yanked him closer and dipped his head into the crook of Blair's shoulder. "Hey!" Blair laughed, grabbing Jim's arms to steady himself. The muscles flexed beneath his hands. He felt Jim's breath hot against his throat, and then his tongue, warm and ticklish.

"Whoa there, partner." Blair grabbed Jim's head in his hands and pushed it back and looked into his eyes, because something needed to be said, here. They'd only just got up to kissing a few hours ago. He himself was on board, like, go team sex--that had always been his home team anyway--but after three years of platonic and more importantly heterosexual friendship surely Jim needed more time to process? "Are you sure this is the right time for this?"

"Can you think of a better one?"

Who was he to argue with that? As much as he believed, with fervent, wholehearted need, that they would both come out of this all right, there was that persistent little voice in the back of his head warning, "You may not get another chance." "Okay, just checking," he said, and let go of Jim's face.

*

"After all we've been through together, you dork. How come you never told me you were gay?"

"What? I'm not!" Blair insisted before realizing how ridiculous he must sound. Yes, Jim's my boyfriend and the love of my life, but _I'm not gay or anything._ But how could he explain that this wasn't about anything so mundane as sexual orientation--it was about the deep and mystical bond between protector of the tribe and protector of the protector? That there was literally magic between them? That their intimacy was both a cause and an effect of power beyond imagining? When ancient spirits have plans for you, and those plans involve being as close as you possibly can to one another, a little thing like gender doesn't matter. After some wordless stammering which Molly seemed to find both amusing and exasperating, Blair settled on, "It's just Jim. Women and Jim. I'm a women and Jim-o-sexual."

"Right," said Molly. "Whatever gets you through the day. You still should have told me you were with him."

"Uh, well..."

"I mean, I figured it out eventually, of course, and then I felt like an idiot. I've been in open relationships before, you know. I actually wouldn't have minded if you'd just been honest."

_She_ felt like an idiot. He couldn't very well admit, after all that, that he and Jim had only just gotten it together. That he lived with the guy, took care of him when he was sick, had been known to hold him in his arms and kiss him repeatedly, and had only just this moment realized that the word "boyfriend" applied. "It was--complicated."

She crossed back to the table, closed her notebook, and looked up into his eyes. "And now?"

"I've got a few more things figured out," said Blair with a charming smile that he hoped would distract her from figuring out that what he had just said was all subtext and had no actual meaning.

"So have I," she said, playing along, looking at him from under her eyelashes. Flirting, god. Had it been so long? She was standing close enough now that he could smell her hair.

"Can he..." She shrugged in a "you know" gesture.

"He can't do much of anything these days," Blair admitted. He began to feel immensely sorry for himself. So they hadn't exactly had time for the relationship talk, what with the tracking a killer through the jungle and all. Did that mean Blair had to be a monk for the rest of his--for until Jim was cured, however long that might be? Sure, it'd probably go quicker if Blair spent his time working instead of hitting on girls, but hey, he'd tried work, and it hadn't produced results so far. Maybe he would be more focused if he wasn't sexually frustrated. Yeah.

"I'm sure he understands you have needs," said Molly.

"Um," said Blair. "It's difficult to say."

"It must be hard," murmured Molly. Blair blinked. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really," said Blair.

"Good," said Molly.

*

"Okay, okay, I've got it figured out. It's a primitive sexual urge. A thrall, say."

Jim responded with an eloquent groan.

"No, hear me out," Blair pressed, determined not to be derailed in his argument by the rhythmic sucking on his neck. "Alex, right? Last time you were here, you kept making out with her, right, and you don't even like her. It was like, kiss... kiss... go crazy..."

"Forget Alex," Jim muttered between kisses.

"Hey, look, if anyone knows what it's like to be under the control of a sexual thrall, it's you. It's a thrall, right?"

Jim pulled back far enough to look Blair in the eye, and he appeared to be thinking about it. "Nope," he finally decided. "I'm pretty much in control of this situation." He shoved Blair down onto the altar.

"It's still a valid theory! Proximity to the Temple of the Sentinels makes you horny."

Jim bent over Blair, his eyes crinkled into a smile. He ran a hand over Blair's face, and slipped the other down the back of his pants and squeezed his ass, pushing his hips up into Jim's leg. "You may have a point."

"Yeah! I, wait, is that a pppmmmmhhhh. Mmm. Mmm-hmmm mm mmm hm."

"Jeez. You can't even stop talking when you're being kissed."

Blair opened his mouth, and then closed it, and drew his hands down from behind Jim's back, making a noncommittal gesture by which he hoped to communicate that he did not intend to dignify that with a response.

"Come on," said Jim. He put his knee down on the other side of Blair, straddled him briefly, and then dropped down to lie beside him. He nudged Blair playfully. "Don't be like that. I like the way you sound."

"You'd better, really," said Blair. "Or that 'follow my voice' bit I've been using to get you out of zones is really a bad idea."

Jim didn't seem to really be listening now, though. He was leaning his forehead to Blair's, eyes closed, inhaling. "The way you smell..." He slowly raised his eyelids, met Blair's gaze. Smiled broadly. "The way you look goes without saying."

"The way I feel is next, presumably," said Blair, wriggling in anticipation.

Jim slowly swept a delicate hand over Blair's chest. The lightest brush of a fingertip over his nipple. Blair gasped. "The way you taste..." He leaned down.

Blair stated, "Uhuhuhhhhh."

"So," said Jim, kissing back up to his face, "you have no reason to be retroactively jealous of Alex."

"I'm not," said Blair. "If anyone should be jealous, it's you, for the way I totally Guide two-timed you with her."

"Thanks," said Jim. "Thank you for reminding me of that." And he decisively wrapped his arms around Blair's back and hugged him tight to his chest.

"As long as we're here, though," said Blair, a moment later, tapping Jim urgently on the shoulder blade, "you could kiss me the way you kissed her."

"I'll do you one better," said Jim, and he began kissing a downward trail over Blair's face and neck and chest, his fingers working the fly button Blair's jeans. Before he had finished working out the mythological and personal implications of being blown, by Jim, right now, for real, by Jim, in the Temple of the Sentinels, by _Jim_, God!, Jim had pulled his cock out into open air, and an instant later Jim's mouth was hot and wet around the tip.

Blair opened his mouth to make a witty disarming bon mot, but it came out, "Haaa-aaaaaa."

Jim looked up, and Blair met his eyes--pale slits, sparkling with amusement. "Relax," Jim said innocently. "Breathe. Just let it come."

Blair laughed and complied: exhaled deeply and closed his eyes. Dismissed all of his busy little trains of thought and let himself be overcome by the sensations, the flares of pleasure licking through his entire body, from the warmth and wet around his cock to the tingling in his fingers and his toes.

The flames surged hotter and faster and more intense until he couldn't stand it. He let out a noise--a growl--deep in the back of his throat. His back arched, and he thrust his head back over the edge of the stone altar, and when his eyes fluttered open, he saw the Eye of God.

*

"The couch," she breathed.

"Uh-huh," said Blair.

She pulled her shirt off as he backed into the living room and fell back onto her overstuffed couch. She was warm and smooth and smelled intoxicatingly like girl. He drank her in with his eyes--the nipples poking against the blue lace of her bra, the tousled hair, the fiery look in her eye, the kiss-wet lips, which in no way put him in mind of Jim's kiss-wet lips. He ran his hands up and down her sides, her soft hot skin, and she grinned and pushed down his shoulders, straddling him. She slid up his shirt and kissed a trail down his tensed abs, and it was so not the time to think about the top of Jim's head as seen from this same vantage point, so he didn't. She came back up and kissed his neck, and reached down to the crotch of his jeans, and he allowed himself to think whatever he damn well pleased--

His mind was full of Jim's stare, vacant and uncomprehending.

Molly pulled back and looked down, and Blair followed her gaze to his open fly, behind which there was absolutely nothing of interest going on.

She smiled, but it was mirthless. "Not gay, huh?"

"No, no! I want to. I just... I keep..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." She sighed. "You picked a hell of a time to go monogamous."

"Sorry," said Blair miserably.

"Forget it." She pulled him to his feet. "Go on home to him."

She found his jacket on the floor and walked him out to the door. He must have looked a wreck, because she melted into sweet pity, adjusting his collars, and sending him off with the parting words, "Go easy on yourself, okay? You've got nothing to feel guilty about."

Right. He responded with a vague wave goodbye.

Out in the truck he promptly dropped his head against the steering wheel.

*

Blair held Jim's head to his chest, sweaty and glowy. Before he'd decided on a suitably fantastic repayment of favors, Jim jumped up abruptly, like he'd heard something.

"Nnnnng," stated Blair, stirring grudgingly.

There was something different about Jim, a kind of aura around him. His eyes were lighter, brighter. His posture was different; he was lighter on his feet, feline. His body was tense and lithe, ready; the streaks of dirt and green where Blair had touched him resembled war paint. He had this expression on his face--amused, like nothing in the world was any match for him.

"I can see every pore in your skin," he announced.

"That's great, man," said Blair cautiously. "Do I need to exfoliate?"

"Big time," said Jim. And, "Come on." Blair hastily threw his shirt over his shoulders and ran after Jim.

Of course Blair couldn't keep up this time. He could only watch him dash, stop suddenly, inhale. Grin. Dash off in a slightly different direction. Repeat until out of sight.

If Blair had admired him on the trail of Alex, this blew it away. Jim wasn't human anymore, wasn't an animal or a machine--he was a force of nature.

*

Jim lying on the living room floor, shaking and whimpering. His eyes were squeezed shut, so Blair figured it was his sight that was his bothering him just at the moment, but he kept reaching for his arm as if it hurt, and then drawing away suddenly upon contact, so it must have been touch as well. He threw his head back and of course banged it right against the back of the couch, and Blair felt like crying, watching him, but instead he found himself biting back a laugh. Good Lord! Where did that come from? What the hell was _wrong_ with him?

It seemed like he should do something to help, even though he'd closed the blinds and turned out the lights and he couldn't think of anything else. He knelt down by Jim, and it seemed to him that Jim threw him a beseeching look before closing his eyes again and burying his head under his arm.

"What do you want me to _do_?" Blair moaned. "I don't know how to help you!" He cast another baleful look at the heavens.

It struck Blair as strange then that Jim should be favoring one side. He reached out and touched Jim's good arm, and he flinched in surprise, but then didn't seem to mind. Blair pulled him into a sitting position and loosed his bathrobe. (He'd given up on real clothes, most days, though sometimes Jim got dressed of his own accord.) Sure enough, there was an ugly scrape surrounding the old gunshot scar on his left bicep. "What the hell have you been doing?" Blair asked. He shook his head and got up to find the cream Jim had insisted on getting to treat Blair's wounds but not his own.

Jim didn't like the feel of Blair's cool cream-covered fingers touching his scrape at first, but Blair waited him out, uselessly murmuring encouraging Guidespeak, and his touch sensitivity must have worn off a bit, because the next time Blair tried, he didn't resist. He seemed even to be soothed, although he was still distractedly blinking and holding his face. After Blair finished and slipped Jim's robe back over his shoulder, Jim sort of slumped over in Blair's direction, so that his head rested on Blair's chest, and Blair chose to interpret that as a sign of affection. He brushed a hand through Jim's hair. "Big lug."

He remembered all at once that he actually had something else to be doing right now. He looked at the clock--ten minutes late already. Nice. He picked up the phone and dialed his own office. After three rings Shelby answered hesitantly: "H...hello? Uh, Blair Sandburg's office."

"Hi, Blair Sandburg's office. Listen, I got kinda held up at home, but I'll be there as soon as I..."

"Oh, it's no problem! We could just have the meeting over there if that's easier. Is there anything you need from the store?"

"Uh, I don't know if that's such a good--"

"It's okay, Molly told me about your partner. I did a paper on doctors and the power structures in high stress situations and I worked at a hospital for six months so I don't have a problem with illness. I--"

"Okay, okay, fine," Blair consented, and immediately regretted it. How much did he really want her to know? Before she arrived, he led Jim up to his room. A nice, dark, quiet area, yeah. Totally not about getting him out of the way.

Shelby arrived in record time, especially impressive considering she must have stopped off to buy oranges and cheapo student wine. (Vitamin C for the invalid, alcohol for the caretaker; yeah, maybe she _did_ understand illness.) She had the office copy of Burton under her arm.

"I guess most people probably don't believe in this stuff and I know you probably consider it a goofy sideline of whatever you are really researching but I found this in your office and I'm really really fascinated by this whole Sentinel thing," she said apologetically, opening the book in her lap. "Do you think maybe there are really people with hyperactive senses?"

"Sure," said Blair, his brain racing to try and figure out the party line. "There are hundreds of documented cases of people with hyperactive sight or hearing..."

"No, but I mean all five," Shelby insisted. "Have you ever found someone with _all five_?"

"Well." He affected disinterest, struggling to keep the cornered-animal feeling from showing on his face. "It's not really something that I..."

Shelby was hardly listening. She leaned forward, eyes shining. "Because I think I have."

Blair blinked. His throat was dry.

"At the hospital where I worked. There was this woman--Alex Barnes."

*

There was an unconscious man tied to a tree in the clearing, but Blair hardly paid him any attention. His only thought on the subject was "Jim must be near." He heard a twig snap and whirled around, and sure enough there was a figure lumbering in the dark. Jim, clutching his head. Blair rushed to his side.

Jim jumped, startled, when Blair took hold of his arms, and it must be serious if he was so overcome with a flood of undifferentiable information that he didn't see or hear or smell Blair coming. "It's okay," Blair murmured. "It's gonna be okay." He tried to sound convinced.

"I can see everything moving," said Jim, looking not so much at Blair as through him. He patted Blair's shoulder, like he was trying to convince himself it was solid. Blair's heart broke. He looked just like Alex before she fell.

But that wasn't going to happen this time. "Don't freak out. Just relax," said Blair, and maybe Jim took that too literally, because he went boneless all at once, collapsing onto the ground. Blair threw a tight hold round his waist and tumbled down with him, trying not very successfully to ease his descent.

"There we go," said Blair, trying to make Jim comfortable on the ground. "Now, just take a deep breath... Tune out everything but me."

"I can't," Jim moaned. "It's too much."

"You can!" Blair kept his voice low, but firm. "Stay with me, man. We can get through this. We're stronger than this, right? Right, Jim?" Jim's gaze darted around, like he saw predators in every corner. Blair grabbed Jim's chin and forced him to look into his eyes. "Focus, Jim. Focus!"

Jim shook his head away and shielded his face with his hand as if from a very bright light. Then he raised his arm, looking at it in horror. "My skin..."

"No, no, shh, you're okay." Blair wrapped his arms tight around Jim, as if he could keep him grounded by brute strength.

Jim's fingertips found Blair's jawline. For just a moment, his eyes focused, and he seemed to see Blair's face as a whole, rather than as individual atoms. "We were one," he whispered. Unable to find the words to speak, Blair gently kissed his mouth. Heat poured off Jim's body, and his heart thundered, but despite these intense signs of life, his head fell back, and his muscles went limp.

"Jim, Jim, Jim, come on, stay with me," Blair croaked against the lump in his throat, but he knew it was all over.

*

"Oh my god, I really shouldn't be telling you this. I signed a confidentiality agreement."

"Don't worry about it, really. I--wait here." Blair went into his room and emerged again with a file folder. He threw it onto the coffee table in front of Shelby.

Her eyes widened when she pulled out the papers. Blair knew that look. "Her case file--augh! You have the police report! Her firsthand account of the first--sensory, um--"

"Spike," Blair suggested.

Shelby looked at Blair like he was a god come down to earth. Even more than usual. "This _is_ your research!"

"Sort of."

"Are you--her Guide?"

"Wow, hey, you really studied that Burton, huh?" Blair stammered, trying to sound pleasant, and not as territorial as he strangely felt. "Uh, no. I'm not her Guide."

Shelby brushed her fingers over the photo of the 19th century Sentinel. "It was strange. I felt so drawn to her. When I read about Guides, I thought," and here she chuckled, nervously, disingenuously, "maybe I was meant to be hers."

Blair didn't return her smile, even though he knew it would put her at ease. "You don't know what she's like when she's awake."

"I've read her case files," said Shelby indignantly.

"Theory versus practice, man," said Blair. "She's a menace. Violent, manipulative, a criminal... I mean, even before she overloaded her senses, she was pretty much nutso."

"Maybe if she'd had a Guide, she wouldn't have been."

Oh man. Ouch.

"Oh my God! Photographs of the Temple!" Shelby laid them out, and, hey. As dangerous as this was, it was nice, in a way, to be able to share his research with someone--someone as excited about as he was. Except insomuch as it directly affected himself, Jim had never been that enthused. "These are the symbols, the ones you had me look up!"

"Yeah. I'm no linguist, but I've been kind of trying to translate it. It's not any language that's been studied before, as far as I know, but it looks kind of related to a kind of hieroglyphics used by--"

"Incans," said Shelby. "Totally. Wow."

"Right, right, this is your field. That chart you gave me has been a big help, by the way. I mean, I'm not done, but I think I've made some headway in unraveling it. Here." Blair grabbed his notebook from its convenient place on the floor, thinking grimly that there were some advantages to having Jim out of commission. "This section here, I think that's the recipe for the stuff she took, that put her in the overload. I mean, well, I happen to have a sample of it, and I asked a friend over at the police department to figure out what was in it, so that helped. And then this part over here--" and Blair had to stop because Shelby was gripping his arm.

"The cure! You think there's a cure!"

"Maybe. I don't know. Don't get your hopes up," Blair urged. "Look, I've been trying already, and nothing, nothing has worked. Believe me. I've tried everything."

*

He hadn't really worried at first. Oh, sure, he'd been concerned, but he hadn't honestly freaked out, because he had been absolutely sure--backed up, admittedly, more by romance than by science--that he could kiss Jim into consciousness, like Sleeping Beauty. It just seemed to make sense. What could be more therapeutic for a Sentinel than close, intimate contact with his Guide? There was a part of him that believed that that was what had gotten them into this mess in the first place. It seemed like such a neat, poetically just cure, like knocking someone on the head again to reverse their amnesia.

He didn't try it at the hospital--Jim was too agitated, and there were too many people around--and he didn't try it as soon as they got home. The loft had thankfully had a calming effect on Jim, but it was familiar enough to put Jim in a mode where he'd wander around starting and not finishing routine tasks. He'd put water on to boil, or walk around with cleaning supplies. This was good in a way because he'd eat or go to the bathroom without prompting, but it was also dangerous. At least if he was so zoned out on a crack in the ceiling or something that he wouldn't move for nine hours, sure, you had to clean up after him, which--while it wasn't really that bad in its own right, made you feel embarrassed on his behalf--but you could also be sure he wasn't going to light himself on fire. Blair found him running a bladeless razor over his face, and he quickly plucked the blades out of the cabinet, and went around the house moving all the other dangerous objects.

The second morning back he'd found Jim just sitting peacefully on his bed, placid, but not appearing particularly deeply zoned. Blair tentatively laid a hand on his arm, and when Jim relaxed, calmed by his touch, Blair felt a surge of Guidely pride and mystical bondedness. He tried the old "Breathe, follow my voice" bit first, hoping simply being in positive familiar circumstances would make it work when it had not at the hospital. When that didn't work, he knew he had to ramp up the usual routine. He ran his hands over Jim's arms; Jim didn't move or make eye contact, but he breathed evenly, and Blair imagined that he was smiling slightly. Blair tried to turn his head--and that he didn't want to do, but fine. Blair crouched in front of him and lined up his mouth to Jim's. He tried to express, with the firmness and tenderness of his kiss, all the things he felt--love and care and friendship and familiarity--signposts to help guide Jim back. Reasons for him to come back.

But evidently his arguments were not strong enough, because they had no appreciable effect. When Blair's hopeful "Jim? Jim? Come on, buddy," met with nothing but continued unfocused staring, Blair tried again. This time, he was more aggressive, forcing Jim's lips open with his, and thrusting his tongue into Jim's unresisting, unresponsive mouth. He encircled Jim's waist with his arms, rubbing his back, and bringing himself closer, so that he was straddling Jim's lap. He moved and pulsed in time with this perfect, epic kiss he was giving, and when he felt Jim harden beneath him, he was sure it was progress: _Now we're getting somewhere!_ It seemed natural to slip down beneath his waistband, to wrap his hand around that hot, hard cock. Hey, you didn't get a guy all hot and bothered without finishing him off, and Blair owed him one. He just knew he was one orgasm away from Jim, from the real Jim.

He was determined to make this good. He unzipped Jim and pushed his knees apart, and knelt in front of him, and took the tip of his cock in his mouth, licking slow, elaborate patterns. He recalled the way Jim had taken him into his mouth at the temple, the inexplicable skill with which he had driven Blair over the edge, and Blair rivaled it, topped it. It was a blowjob of beauty.

The only problem was of course that Jim didn't move at all, didn't give him any feedback, and when he looked up to see if he could find even the barest glimmer of something in Jim's face--nothing. Blair changed tactics. He shifted Jim's cock into his hand, and he stroked it, gently at first, lovingly, and did what he did best: talked.

He knelt in front of Jim, reverently pumping his cock, and looking up into his impassive face, pouring forth all his thoughts and feelings: how much he loved Jim, and wanted him; how he had always admired him, worshiped him, everything that he could do, and that he was. His words and motions came faster and simpler and more desperate--"Come on Jim, you have to come back, come on baby, I need you, I need you, I need you"--but long before Jim shuddered and came, Blair gasping dry tearless sobs, because he knew it wasn't going to work. Jim's body went through the physiological motions of an orgasm. That was all Blair had accomplished. He wiped up with a tissue and zipped Jim back into his pants, feeling disgusted with himself.

He crouched in front of Jim, looking him full in the face. This was it: last chance. "Really, Jim," he said, earnestly, fervently, "I love you. Jim. _I love you._ Come back."

And... nothing.

"Fine!" He got up and turned toward the stairs. "I guess you don't feel the same way! I don't know what happened to not turning your back on people, but, hey, whatever, man! Stay the way you are, no skin off my back!"

He peeked back before he headed down. It was stupid, but a part of him thought that maybe the emotional manipulation would work. That, after everything, the way Jim _would_ snap out of it would be with a sigh and a grudging "Fine, fine, whatever you say, Chief."

He shouldn't really have expected it to work. He'd known all along, logically, that the proximity of the sex to the accident was not necessarily an indicator of a causal relationship. Now it was just confirmed. It was just a coincidence, something that had been a long time in coming, and it was just their bad luck the beginning of their relationship was interrupted by such a catastrophe. Or maybe his first theory had been correct, and Jim's desire was just another strange side effect of being near the Temple. His eye had happened to land on Blair, either because of his role as the Guide, or simply because he was there, and it was just Blair's bad luck that he'd reciprocated the attraction, and mixed it up with the idea of love.

That let him off the hook, in a way, because he knew he hadn't made this happen. Still, he'd have gladly shouldered the responsibility if only Jim would get better.

Logically Blair knew that Jim loved him. He had never said so in so many words, but he had said so in deeds; in looks and hugs and protection and shelter and life-giving breath and campfire kisses and--so the jury was still out on the sex, but still. Even if they were not meant to be lovers in the traditional sense, they were certainly great friends. Partners.

But he couldn't help but feel that, if Jim really loved him, he would have come back to him.

*

Blair held the concoction up to the light, giddy with the feeling of mad scientist power. For true cinematic glory, the potion should be a bright electric green and not an unappetizing brownish color; and it should be in a graduated cylinder, not an ordinary drinking glass. At least rain was beating against the windows, which was a nice touch on the part of the gods. But whatever the outward details, the fact remained: he had done it. He'd made the antidote.

The recipe was right. He was sure of it. Okay, it was an amateur translation, but it had been done with painstaking care. He'd checked it over and over, started over from scratch time and again, and he kept coming back to the same set of instructions. Shelby's chart had been perfectly accurate as far as he could tell. Blair wanted to go back in time and hug his past self for entrusting her with the task. In his frantic and sleepless state, he'd have done it much more haphazardly, if he remembered to do it all, which he hadn't. He had in fact completely forgotten about this line of inquiry until he finally sat down and examined Shelby's work.

Finding the ingredients hadn't been hard; all it took were some calls to local florists, a friend at the Rainier botany department, and a shady friend-of-a-friend who called himself "Loki, friend of Chaos" and who kept a vast basement greenhouse of lovingly harvested exotic plants. And a small boatload of cash. And a warning from Megan that his name was now on record with the narcotics department.

The potion looked like crap but it was pleasantly fragrant; and luckily (or fatefully?) Jim seemed to be having a day of acute smell and minimal sight. Blair led him from the houseplant in the corner of the living room over to the kitchen counter and passed him the glass. "Here ya go, buddy."

Jim started to take it automatically, but shook his head away in surprise on the inhale, and dropped his hands, and would have spilled the whole thing had Blair been a little slower. "Hey, don't take it if you don't want it! All right, all right, but just have some, okay?" Blair dipped his finger into the concoction and held it to Jim's lips, and Jim obligingly took it into his mouth and licked. "_That's_ it," Blair murmured, and coaxed his mouth open, and got him to drink from the cup. Per the instructions as he understood them, Blair made sure he had about as much of the antidote as he'd had of the original potion.

"All right, Jim," he said, putting down the cup, and taking Jim's hands in his own. "I'm here, I've gotcha, feel free to collapse under the weight of your returning consciousness or whatever. Anything you need, man. Let's do this thing."

For a time Jim just stood there, no different than before, spaced-out and breathing in the same strange quick, shallow breaths.

"Come on, Jim," Blair murmured fervently. "Just let the potion do its magic. Don't resist. Let the thoughts come, let the dials spin themselves down, do what you gotta do. Just come back to me. Come on, man, I need you, here. You have no idea."

Nothing. Blair began to wonder if he had screwed up.

"C'mon c'mon come _on_, Jim," he insisted, his voice strained and broken with urgency. "Just come back. The hard part's done. The potion's dulling your senses, yes? I just need you to meet me halfway. Jim?"

Nothing.

"What did I do wrong?" Blair demanded. "I did it right!" He grabbed his translation notes, flipped through them, anxious to find an error he'd overlooked. Of course in this state he wouldn't find anything even if it was there. He threw the notebook at the wall and then, for good measure, kicked the wall in the face.

Then he did it again, all of it, from the beginning. He gathered his sources, checked each one for false premises, and carefully rewrote his translation, word for word, from the ground up. He took the last of his leftover ingredients and made up a new batch of the stuff. He forced himself to work slowly, painstakingly crushing the leaves in his fingers, sublimating the frustration that was welling up tight inside him.

Jim had apparently decided he liked the way the stuff smelled because he didn't stray far from the kitchen and he docilely allowed himself to be fed from the second batch.

"Okay, Jim, listen to me," said Blair. "It's up to you, now. Come on, buddy. You can _do_ this, you're _better_ than this. Come on! The city needs you. You're letting the city down!"

Nothing. So guilt didn't work.

"Jim, what are you waiting for? Don't you want to come back? I mean, okay, yes, Lord knows you deserve a vacation if anyone does, but you can't even think of a single perk of conscious thought? There's not one single thing you want to come back to?

"Do you want me to beg? I'll beg! I'll beg on my knees!" Kneeling, he continued, "Please, man. I can't keep going like this. I don't know what else to do. This was it! This was supposed to work! Jim. _Jim._" He stood up, waved a hand in front of Jim's face. "Come on, man, what the hell's your problem? What more do you want? Why are you still punishing me?"

He knew he was becoming ridiculous as well as frantic. Okay. One last try. He took Jim's face in his hands, positioned him so that his gaze was directed at Blair, if not exactly focused on him, and said, pathetically, "Please."

There was no change. No spark of recognition. All that happened was Jim's nose started to run.

Blair sighed and got a tissue.

He tried to forget it--chalk it up to a failed attempt, no big deal, he'd had plenty of those--but even as he cleaned up the kitchen and filed away his notes, even as time wore on, every little random motion and gesture from Jim set his heart racing. As though the potion would spontaneously kick in, and Jim would all right again. At the same time, in his conscious, evolved forebrain, his illusions that that would happen were rapidly departing. For the first time he was left with absolutely no idea for proceeding. No untried avenue of research. He'd hit the wall.

Both Blair and Jim moped anxiously around the house until Blair had had enough of the sights and sounds of the loft and went out onto the balcony for some air. The rain had stopped and the sun had decided to come out and shine, bright and cheery.

When Blair turned Jim was swaying in the doorway, squinting mistrustfully at the outside world. "Hey, it's okay. Come on," said Blair, taking his arm and leading him into a patch of sun. Jim looked up, almost smiling, his face bathed in warm light, an image of stoic beauty. It was rare, seeing Jim apparently happy, and Blair couldn't help but melt a little, in spite of his severe disappointment. This gig had its compensations.

So this was it, then. This was just the way life was going to be. It was hard to doubt that now. All the other sense problems they'd encountered had cleared up within a few days, but this one was showing some serious staying power. And it wasn't just Jim. Blair had lost both his subjects to this. Maybe this was it, maybe this was just how Sentinels--ended. Hey, they lived more intensely than normal humans did. It stood to reason that their ride should be shorter.

But to go in this way seemed a cruel and unusual fate. Especially for Jim, who'd been so active, so independent, so intelligent and in-control and helpful and protective. He'd only spent his entire life in service to humanity. He hadn't asked for his powers, just quietly and seriously risen to the responsibility, and done his best to use them for the good of others. He hadn't gotten greedy, like Alex, wanting more and more. He'd only taken the damn potion to catch a killer. It wasn't fair that that should end him, not only as a Sentinel, but as a man. And it wouldn't even let him go with dignity, but forced him to half-remain, with the body living on, a thoughtless thing.

Nothing to prevent me from publishing now, Blair thought glumly. Jim's original argument--that he didn't want criminals knowing he had an edge--was irrelevant if his career was over. Blair had always suspected that Jim's issues went deeper than that--fear of fame, need for control, that kind of thing--but hey, he wouldn't understand one way or the other now. Blair could write whatever he damn well wanted!

He sighed. Scholarly freedom didn't seem like such a prize anymore. He had no desire to write anything at the moment. He didn't know what would be more depressing: describing Jim's current condition or writing up the findings on Jim's former power. Maybe he'd just give up on the project. Do something else, something that mattered less to him. Preferably something local and low-key. He had responsibilities at home.

He still couldn't quite wrap his head around it, how he'd gone overnight from a swinging bachelor, footloose and fancy free (so he thought, anyway), to the permanent caretaker of his incapacitated life partner. He wondered if the tragic and convenient timing of their lovemaking had been intentional--just to make sure Blair was good and bound to Jim before Jim really needed him. "Was that your plan?" he murmured.

He froze in a moment of clarity as sudden and unexpected as that first kiss. Who was he talking to? Who was he ascribing intentionality to? The ancient spirits? When, exactly, had he started believing in them?

Because, man, he did believe in them! He'd believed in them so hard! Why? It had seemed logical at the time, each step following on the other, but what was the evidence, really? A few visions--dreams--reported to him by Jim. One vision of his own, experienced during extreme physical stress. It had been corroborated by Jim, but how much stock could he put in that? Jim certainly believed he'd had the same vision, but eyewitness accounts were unreliable enough, let alone eyewitness accounts of dreams.

Jim's abilities themselves were obviously real--the evidence of that was overwhelming and quantifiable--but enhanced senses were not in themselves evidence of gods and spirits. A genetic advantage. A mutation. A predisposition combined with unconscious self-training in a survival situation. All perfectly explainable without resorting to magic.

It made sense for Jim to believe he was controlled by spirits; his brain had to come up with some strategy to cope with his unusual experiences. But Blair should have maintained a healthy skepticism. Wasn't that what he was around for? What kind of scientist was he? He was supposed to be studying the ancient beliefs, not indoctrinating himself! He could never hold his head up as a self-respecting atheist again. He'd taught himself to believe the comforting lie that his fate, his future, and everything he did was controlled by some mystical puppetmaster.

He'd believed that they'd made him fall in love with Jim! How convenient that that should be out of his control. He didn't have to take responsibility for messing around with the last person in the world he should be messing around with, or for anything that got destroyed in the process: the friendship; the objectivity of his project; his perception of his own sexuality; his suitability as Jim's partner and protector.

Understandably, the disaster had only caused Blair to cling more closely to the legends. Neurological damage was so permanent; much better to believe that Jim was under a spell which might be broken by the right magic words or potion or mystical healing sex. As long as he romanticized his own role as Guide, he looked like a tragic hero. He didn't have to face the sickening truth: that he, a delusional rogue anthropologist with a firm conviction in fairy tale logic, had talked his best friend into poisoning himself.

*

Simon must have learned from his first visit to the loft, the day after they checked out of the hospital, because the next day brought sandwiches.

"Oh, food!" Blair greeted, looking up briefly from his notebook to the greasy take-out bag. "Simon, you officially rock. I don't think he's eaten since this morning."

Simon's expression confirmed Blair's suspicions that he looked like the living dead. "When was the last time you ate? Or slept, for that matter?"

Blair laughed mirthlessly. "I'll sleep when he's better. Jim? Where--oh, right there. I don't know why I bother calling him. Make yourself at home. Let me just..." Blair walked to the table, still re-reading his notes. He struck out a line, then realized he'd been right the first time, and rewrote it. Finally he tore himself away and joined Simon and Jim in the living room.

Blair hadn't had a thought about food all day, but presented with real live sandwiches, he suddenly found himself starving. He dug in, but Jim made no move. Blair one-handedly unwrapped a second sandwich and held it in Jim's face until he took finally took a bite. Somehow, even while blankly chewing, Jim managed to convey the impression that he was just humoring Blair to get him off his back. Blair suspected he was projecting it, but he still found it strangely comforting.

Simon didn't. He watched Jim eat out of Blair's hand with a look of frozen horror. "I find every part of this situation disturbing."

"Ha," Blair muttered. "You don't know the half of it."

Simon's brows knit, and Blair worried he'd said too much, but Simon said sympathetically, "I know you never signed on to play nursemaid. Do you need backup?"

"What, you mean like a professional? No. I'm fine. We'll be fine. I know it doesn't look like I've been doing a good job but I really am looking out for him better than myself."

"You won't do him any good if you burn yourself out."

"I know, I know, but as soon as I fix it we can all relax."

"And when do you think that will be?"

"Any day now!"

"So you know how to cure him?"

"Well... not exactly," said Blair, and he rushed on as Simon gave his "Sandburg says 'not exactly'" sigh, "I've got a lot of irons in the fire. Something'll work out. Just give it a little time."

"The thing is, Sandburg, I don't have time," said Simon gently. "I need to know if I've got an opening to fill in my department."

"You don't! I swear you don't. Just give me time. A day, two. I'll figure this out, and he'll be back at one hundred per cent. You just watch. Two days. One week, max."

*

There didn't seem to be much point in getting out of bed the next morning. He heard Jim rifling around the kitchen drawers the way he sometimes did, but the gun was safely locked in Blair's desk, so he didn't worry about it. Something crashed down in the living room, but then he heard Jim's footsteps on the stairs, and figured, eh, anything you can walk away from, and drifted back to sleep. Later the phone started to ring, and without knowing what sense Jim was zoning on at the moment, he couldn't allow that to continue, so he wandered into the kitchen and took the phone off the hook.

As he was climbing back into bed he remembered a dream--a spotted panther circling a big, friendly, mangy mutt. The dog licked the panther's face, and the panther attacked with bared claws. It was the kind of dream he'd have tried to read things into if it had come at any other time in the last three years. "Nice one, subconscious," he muttered, because he still hadn't shaken the habit of inappropriately attempting conversation with objects or entities that would not answer back.

He woke up again later to the sound of pounding at the door. When he found Shelby on the doorstep he was momentarily embarrassed that he'd come to the door in boxers and a tank, but remarkably, she didn't seem to notice his undress. She made a beeline for the remains of the mixology experiment on the kitchen counter. "You made the potion! Is this it?" She turned around the glass, looking at the disgusting brownish liquid with undue reverence.

"It doesn't work," said Blair.

"How do you know until you try?" She plunked down her duffel bag and drew out a white coat from piles of books and candles. "Don't you worry about a thing. I've got everything we need."

"For what?"

"To perform the healing ceremony on Alex, of course," she said serenely, slipping on the lab coat. "Now, I've got some very specific ideas on how we should proceed here."

"What? No," Blair shook his head.

"Oh, come on, you gotta let me help. I worked there, I know my way around."

"No, look, it's a waste of time, okay? It's not going to work."

"It won't be much of a stretch for me to pose as a doctor," she barreled on, clipping a nametag (her own) to her lapel. "I didn't work in Alex's ward, so hopefully they won't know what I was doing or that I'm supposed to be gone. We'll just say you're her brother."

"Right," said Blair, giving up. "Because I look so much like her."

"More than I do. Now, come on. Get dressed."

Okay, foot down time. "No, Shelby!"

"Fine, don't, but I think you'll be less conspicuous in pants--"

"This is pointless!" Blair exploded. "She's clearly got irrevocable brain damage and there's no mystical ceremony in the world that's going to help with that! This stuff, this ancient gods and spirits stuff, it's all superstition and stories! You're clinging to ridiculous beliefs because you want her back, but she's gone, okay? She's not coming back. Deal with it already!"

Shelby listened patiently, then turned to the counter and carefully poured the dregs of the potion into a small flask. She tucked it into a pocket and hoisted her back on her shoulder. She gave Blair an expectant look. "So are you coming or what?"

"Uh..." Blair glanced back into the living room, where Jim was sleeping peacefully on the couch. If anybody needed his help staying out of trouble now, it was Shelby. "Just give me a minute."

*

Alex's room was tucked away in a little corner near a janitorial closet and not much else. Blair stood sipping coffee and trying to look like he belonged there. Luckily, the passers-by on the main hallway had their own problems, and nobody paid much attention to him.

He peered into the room. Shelby was going all out. She'd turned off the overhead light and lit a dozen candles in a semicircle around Alex's bed. She carefully slipped a drop of the potion between Alex's parted lips. Then she sat, unstrapped Alex's hands, took one in hers, and began to talk to her.

Nothing happened.

Shelby continued stroking Alex's hand and talking with the infinite patience of someone who has not experienced dozens and hundreds of failures. Blair wished he could do something, save her from disappointment, but she had to learn on her own. She'd never be content to give up until she'd exhausted all the possibilities for herself.

Then he had a useless idea.

Shelby looked up as he walked in. "Great spirits!" she said, waving her arms dramatically. "Acknowledge the presence of..."

"Do you have a pen?" Blair interrupted.

Shelby made an annoyed face and reached into her bag. "I'm trying to conduct a ceremony here."

Blair unscrewed the ink cartridge and broke it into the remains of his coffee.

"What are you doing?"

He dipped his finger in the diluted ink and drew patterns on Alex's face and arms. Shelby's eyes widened and she snatched up Burton and flipped anxiously to the photograph of the Sentinel.

She beamed. "Jungle paint!"

Blair shrugged. "If you're going to do it, you may as well do it right."

Shelby took up Alex's hands in hers, and said, "Come on, Alex. Don't be afraid. You are wanted here. You are loved. Whatever you have done, I forgive you." She glanced apologetically at Blair.

"It's okay. I'm not offended."

The words had no effect. Shelby took the bottle, and shook out a drop of potion onto her fingers, and glossed it over her lips, and bent over Alex, and kissed her. It was a chaste kiss, but the potential inappropriateness gave Blair an uncomfortable deja-vu, and he coughed. Shelby pulled back and stared at Alex's impassive face.

They both looked so pathetic--Shelby, the desperate would-be Guide, and Alex, the unconscious and sickly ex-Sentinel. Of course she had always been sick, really, but watching her like this made it easier to believe. Shelby was right. It wasn't her fault. Not Blair's drowning--she'd been out of control--and not Jim's condition. Blair hadn't even realized, until he absolved her, that he'd been holding that grudge.

Blair stepped forward and brushed Alex's hair from her forehead. "She's right," he said. "No hard feelings."

He was about to ask Shelby, very gently, if she wanted to go home, when suddenly a hand clamped around his wrist. Before he could see whose it was, another hand gripped his neck, and Alex's eyes were open. She was smiling ghoulishly. "How many times do I have to kill you?"

Shelby screamed and fled. Blair gagged and struggled. Alex was weaker than she thought from her time in bed, and Blair was able to twist away and throw himself back into a corner, knocking Shelby's gear across the floor. Blair grabbed a small pair of scissors, gripping them like a knife.

Shelby returned with two orderlies who immediately began restraining Alex. Luckily they prioritized and did not ask about the war paint. Shelby knelt by Blair.

"Get the bottle," said Blair.

Shelby snagged the flask of potion and then returned to help Blair up. "Blair," she gasped dreamily as she led him out the door, "you _are_ her Guide!"

"Yeah," said Blair, his voice dull and slow despite the necessary rush to get out of the hospital. "And you're Jim's."

Shelby turned to him and gaped.

*

Shelby was smart enough to wait until they were speeding away before she started asking questions. "Jim! I never thought--but of course he is. How come you didn't tell me? Why do you think I'm--I mean, I don't even know him."

"If I'm supposed to be Alex's... Well, it explains why I wasn't able to do anything for him." The muddle of doubt was rapidly dissipating. He could feel his intuition returning, a compass showing him the way.

"But why me? Maybe I'm not anyone's Guide."

"You're a Guide."

"I know," Shelby confessed immediately. "How do you know?"

Blair smiled faintly. "I had a vision."

*

"Hey, buddy." Blair led Jim to his bed and sat him down. "I've got someone here to help you."

Shelby hesitated at the top of the stairs. "I don't know if I..."

"Just set it up," said Blair.

She lit the candles and arranged her supplies, but she paused again with the bowl of ink in her hand. "I... this is weird. I feel like I don't have the right." She tried to hand off the bowl to Blair, but he shook his head.

"Try," he whispered. "Please."

She nodded grimly and dipped her fingers in the ink. Somehow Blair couldn't watch. He wandered down the stairs, sat on the bottom step, and leaned his head against the wall.

If this worked, it would be confirmed. Maybe there'd been some mix-up--maybe he was never meant to be with Jim. Considering the sexual aspect of the Sentinel/Guide bond, the fact they were both guys--straight guys--seemed like confirmation. Much as he hated to admit it, it made more sense for Jim to be with Shelby. She was too young for him, but then, so was Blair. She was beautiful and bright and positive and determined. She wasn't the kind of sophisticated lady he'd always imagined Jim going for, but Jim liked Blair, and Shelby was a lot like him. She'd be good for Jim. Still, imagining them together--happy! in love! forever! suburbs! kids!--god. It was so _wrong_.

He had been Jim's Guide, though. He knew he had. "I feel more focused when I'm around you," Jim had said. That wasn't a placebo effect; that was real. But where had that bond gone? Why couldn't Blair fix him?

Maybe he hadn't even fixed Alex--maybe they'd just been seeing delayed reaction from Shelby's successful fix. Maybe Blair had been Guide for both Sentinels, but his duties had been transferred to someone young and fresh. Blair had proved his unworthiness: he'd broken them both.

Shelby and Alex. Shelby and Jim. Hell. If Shelby cured him, he didn't care. Let them have each other. At least he would be okay. Please, he silently pleaded, let him be okay.

There was a creak on the stairs behind him. He jumped up and whirled around, almost expecting to see Jim up and alert and smiling down at him; but it was only Shelby.

"It's--not working," she said.

"What do you mean, it's not working? Keep trying!"

"I don't think it's going to help, Blair. I'm not the right person. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, just fix him!"

"Listen," said Shelby gently, touching his arm. "I can tell you care about him just as much as I care about Alex--"

Blair scoffed. "Don't even _compare_. You don't know what Jim and I have been through together. You don't know--"

"Well, there you go! It's got to be you! I started the ceremony; now you have to go up there and finish it! You're the only one who can cure him!" She said it like she thought the news would please him.

"What, you think I just haven't been trying hard enough?" Blair demanded. "Listen, I've been trying every minute for a month! I've been researching, I've been staying up nights, I've bargained, begged, and pleaded, I've violated the laws of god and man! Until you've done that, you can't stand here and tell me it's not going to work!" Blair grabbed her by the arms and shook her, which was difficult as she was significantly taller and standing one stair above him. "I don't care if you know him, I don't care if you like him, it's your responsibility, so you march right back up there and you give it a real goddamned shot!"

Shelby tried to set her jaw, but her chin was wobbling. Blair let go of her, but couldn't bring himself to feel remorse.

She wiped her face angrily and drew a breath. "I don't know, okay? I don't know why it hasn't worked for you, maybe he's not your Sentinel, but he sure as hell isn't mine! Alex is mine, and I'm going to her!"

"You don't want her," Blair warned, following her into the living room.

Shelby threw her things into her bag. "Correction: you don't want her. That's okay; you don't have to."

"Shelby." Blair touched her shoulder. "I'm serious. She's gonna eat you alive!"

Shelby shrugged, a fiery glint in her eye. "Let her." And with that she marched out of the loft.

Blair stared at the open door for a moment, then closed it. Alone again. Shelby had given him a new surge of hope, but now she was gone and he was back to square one. What could he do that hadn't already been done?

He trudged up the stairs. Jim was still lying on his bed, staring into the distance, painted up and surrounded by candles. Blair sat down and stretched out beside him.

"You know, I've been trying to figure out who to blame for all this," he told Jim. "Me--that's a very strong case; you--less strong; Alex--very weak; the spirits--well. I guess I should trust that they have their reasons for doing things. Without them, I wouldn't have you to miss."

Uncomfortable deja-vu be damned. He loved this damn Sentinel, yes, even now. He leaned over and kissed his mouth.

He buried his head in Jim's shoulder. "I do miss you, though," he mumbled into his shirt, wrapping his arms tight around Jim's shoulders.

Jim's hand landed heavy on his head. Blair's heart began to speed before he thought about it; but his surge of hope was extinguished just as quickly as it sparked. He could debate whether it was a random movement or a genuinely affectionate one, but whatever it was, it was nothing beyond Jim's current capabilities. It certainly didn't mean...

"Blair?"

Blair froze. Jim's voice. Merely a hopeful hallucination, or had Jim added "speaking common words and phrases" to his repertoire of routine actions? Blair pulled back and looked up into Jim's face, and Jim was looking right at him. Blair pinched himself hard, and again.

Jim watched him with a perplexed look. "What's going on?" He rubbed his head and then stretched his arms out. "Man. How come I feel like I haven't worked out in a month?"

Blair's vision blurred. "Jim," he wanted to say, but he couldn't even manage to get through that short word. He threw himself back down against Jim's shoulder.

"Whoa, hey," said Jim. He didn't ask any more questions, just held Blair with one arm, and stroked his hair with the other. "You're okay. I've got you."

Blair laughed through his sobs. No, you've got it wrong, he thought wildly. I've got _you_. You're okay.


End file.
